


Clear Blue Skies

by geekdom_is_wisdom



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 18:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekdom_is_wisdom/pseuds/geekdom_is_wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Unlike Achilles, Patroclus had no natural inclination for Quidditch. He didn’t even enjoy it particularly. In fact, the only reason he had bothered to join the team was to have an excuse to spend more time with Achilles. After all, he needed a Beater to practice with in order to simulate real gameplay – or so he had reasoned. Unfortunately he had neglected to realize that, firstly, Achilles outflew every other student at Hogwarts without practicing at all, and secondly that Patroclus was no more capable of smacking Bludgers at Achilles than he was kissing a Mandrake.'</p><p>Achilles and Patroclus compete for the Quidditch Cup, when a rogue Bludger from Hector adds tension to the most exciting match of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear Blue Skies

Patroclus didn’t know much about Quidditch, but he knew enough to see that Achilles was the best Chaser in the school – by a considerable margin. They had both been in their first year at Hogwarts when Patroclus first saw him play, and he remembered every detail of the moment they first met.

  _Content with wandering the grounds, Patroclus had found his way down to the Quidditch pitch, finding the stands stark and empty. The field seemed vacant too, until Patroclus caught sight of a darting edge of robes against the powdery, midsummer sky._

_He’d been little but a blur of robes and blond hair, ducking and weaving across the field with such ease and precision that it seemed like he had been born with a broom in his hand. He would throw the Quaffle ahead, looping to catch it before it neatly arched through one of the hoops._

_After an hour or so Achilles swooped down and landed neatly on the edge of the pitch, chest heaving slightly. He glanced around as he pulled off his flying gloves, catching sight of Patroclus over the in stands. Patroclus glanced down at his half-untied red and gold tie, wishing he’d bothered to keep himself a little neater._

_“What are you doing?” the blond boy had called out, frowning. Patroclus’ stomach flipped; he was stunning even when frowning and covered in sweat, his pale cheeks flushed._

_"_ _Nothing.” Patroclus replied defensively, cursing himself the moment it came out of his mouth and adding hurriedly: “You sure can fly.”_

_He shrugged nonchalantly. “Yes. My mother has always said that my skills far exceeded the expectations for my age.”_  
  
He spoke with a smooth, polished gait, and accompanied by his Slytherin robes, Patroclus was able to piece the narrative together: he was surely from one of the old, pureblooded families. 

_“Do you play?” the boy asked politely._

_"Me? Oh, no, not really.” Patroclus babbled. “I mean, I do, but not against the likes of you.”_

_Achilles smiled, somehow managing to humbly accept the compliment without a word. The butterflies in Patroclus’ stomach intensified._

_"I’m Achilles, by the way.” the boy added as an afterthought, holding out his hand. “And you?”_  
  
Patroclus took his hand – surprisingly soft – and shook, grinning. “Patroclus.”

 Several years later they stood opposite each other, in the center of a field surrounded by hundreds of screaming students and several dozen equally energized teachers. Achilles smirked, eyes gleaming like jewels against the emerald green of his playing robes. Patroclus returned the grin, nervously tightening his grip on the worn Beater’s club in his hands.

 Unlike Achilles, Patroclus had no natural inclination for Quidditch. He didn’t even enjoy it particularly. In fact, the only reason he had bothered to join the team was to have an excuse to spend more time with Achilles. After all, he needed a Beater to practice with in order to simulate real gameplay – or so he had reasoned. Unfortunately he had neglected to realize that, firstly, Achilles outflew every other student at Hogwarts without practicing at all, and secondly that Patroclus was no more capable of smacking Bludgers at Achilles than he was kissing a Mandrake.

 All of this aside, Patroclus was a decent enough flyer and suitably strong to make the team in his third year, two years after Achilles first joined the Slytherin team. It wasn’t until a few seasons later that both Slytherin and Gryffindor first played each other in the final, a day Patroclus had anticipated and dreaded in equal measure.

  _Good luck,_ Achilles mouthed silently, the light wind tousling his blond curls in a way that unfairly resembled a hair product commercial. Patroclus silently rejoiced, sensing the envious sighs of nearly every girl in the stadium – and a healthy dose of the boys, too.

 But before he could reply, the referee had released the Bludgers and the Snitch, and tossed the Quaffle in a high arc above their heads; the game had begun.

 Patroclus instantly lost Achilles as he swept upwards and grabbed the Quaffle, flanked by several red-clad Chasers in desperate pursuit. He took his eyes off Achilles to scan for the Bludgers, catching sight of one by the goal hoops on the far side of the field. By the time he had reached it, the crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, interrupted intermittently by the disappointed groans of the Gryffindor fans. There was no need to turn – Achilles had clearly just scored the first points of the game.

 As the play came roaring up the field, Patroclus descended on the Bludger, throwing all of this weight behind his club and sending the black ball hurtling towards the pack of Chasers. It connected with its target, and one of the Slytherin girls gave a short cry and fell back from the group. Patroclus cringed guiltily, having to remind himself that it was his role as a Beater to attack other players.

  _Maybe I should have been a Chaser,_ he thought glumly.

 Out of the corner of his eye Patroclus caught sight of a dash of red, and felt the whoosh of a Bludger soar past him. Glancing up, he saw Hector hovering a few feet away, having just smacked the other iron ball towards the approaching players – at a pace at least double that Patroclus could achieve on his best day.

 Hector was nearly as good a Beater as Achilles was a Catcher. He had a build perfectly suited to the position, tall and sturdy, with arms so defined it was as if they were carved from marble. He was a year or two older than both Patroclus and Achilles, and had played since they’d stepped foot in the castle. Rumor had it he was already signed on to play for the Wimbourne Wasps when he graduated, and admittedly Patroclus would be glad to see him go. The mere sight of him made his blood run cold, which was not an easy feat to induce in a Gryffindor.

 Patroclus swooped lower, hoping to gain as much distance from Hector as possible as he pursued the other Bludger. Meanwhile, the pack of Chasers had changed direction again towards the Slytherin goals – Achilles or one of the others must have intercepted the Quaffle.

 He gave the Bludger a half-hearted whack as he glanced up, searching for Achilles amongst the busy play. He was normally easy enough to find, and today was no exception; the sky was clear and the bright sun lit up his hair like a beacon. His face showed no signs of focus or strain, and only a light blush gave indication of any exertion at all. He took to the sport with the ease of a bird to flight, utterly calm and yet dangerously proficient.

 Hector had returned to the active end of the pitch, scanning the skies for a Bludger. Frustrated, Patroclus went to reposition when suddenly Hector swung hard at the black ball beside him, his target clear from his line of vision. Aghast, Patroclus glanced over at Achilles, who was busy taking on several opposing players at once and was giving no regard to the nearby Bludgers.

 Patroclus darted forwards, readying his club to divert the path of the Bludger, but wobbled and nearly lost his seating as the iron ball hurtled at breakneck pace, until –

 There was a sharp crack, an explosion of white light and a burst of unbelievable pain, as Patroclus was knocked clean from his broom and began plummeting to the grass below.

 At the synchronized wince of sympathy from the crowd, Achilles glanced around and saw Patroclus’ limp body hurtling towards the pitch. His face for the first time in the game broke from its composed state into one of sheer panic, and nearby players could hear an inhuman choking sound come from his direction. He carelessly tossed the Quaffle aside and shot downwards in a sharp spiral.

 Patroclus was only feet away from the ground when Achilles reared up beneath him, his broom buckling dangerously as he lunged to catch the motionless figure. Achilles impossibly maintained his balance and continued his descent to the ground, laying Patroclus gently on the grass.

 The crowd was silent, too shocked at the sudden turn of proceedings to either cheer or cower. Above their heads, play seemed to have stopped, despite Achilles’ dismissal of the Quaffle. From the sides of the pitch came a crowd of black-robed staff hastening across the pitch.

 “Patroclus? Pat, can you hear me? _Patroclus!”_

Achilles kneeled over the motionless body, whose limbs were sprawled in awkward directions as if he were a piece of origami that had been trodden on. Patroclus’ face was covered in crimson, issued from a jagged cut across his cheekbone. Achilles desperately blotted at the wound with the edge of his robe, his heart beating deafeningly in his ears.

 “Step back, please!” came the curt call of an approaching teacher. The staff had reached the end of the pitch and had whipped out their wands, ready for the process of levitating Patroclus back to the hospital wing.

 “Professor, let me come and – “  
  
“That’s quite alright, we can manage.” another of the staff members quipped. “Your, ah, _friend_ , will be well taken care of.”

 Helpless, Achilles watched as Patroclus was whisked away amidst a sea of black robes. Meanwhile the other players had descended from the skies and landed alongside him.

 “He came out of nowhere.” a voice was saying from behind him. “I wasn’t even aiming for him – the guy is on my team, for Merlin’s sake! - I was going for his boyfriend, but he missed the swing and it got him…”  
  
Incensed, Achilles turned to face Hector, every fiber of his body quivering with anger. Sensing his fury, Hector held his hands up in a show of innocence.

 “Hey, accidents happen, everyone knows the sport is dangerous when they step on the field and – _argh!”_

Achilles had leapt forward like a wild cat, fists clenched, and caught Hector square on the jaw. The crowd roared its approval, heckling and jeering at the new attraction taking place below. Both boys went tumbling to the ground.

 Strong for his age but finely built, Achilles was powerless as Hector threw him off with ease, returning the favor with a punch to the abdomen that instantly squashed the air from Achilles’ lungs. Both wandless and suddenly bloodthirsty, they tumbled on the ground like animals, artlessly lashing out at any free patch of body available. In a minute Achilles’ robes were covered in mud, grass and blood – his own or Patroclus’ he no longer knew.

 The two were watched on by both the Gryffindor and Slytherin team members, none of whom seemed foolish enough to interfere in the fight. The professors nearest the pitch had all left with Patroclus, leaving those in the stands to fight their way through the madly cheering students.

 But it was too late. Hector had managed to stagger to his feet, kicking Achilles away just as one of the observing Gryffindor Chasers, Paris, had a stroke of courage. In a desperate, adrenaline-induced fit of passion, he picked up Hector’s discarded club and swung, catching Achilles across the back of the head. The hit wasn’t hard enough to break bones, but the blond teen dropped instantly and did not get back up.

 Hours later, Patroclus awoke in a pained daze, his head throbbing as his eyes scanned for some sign of where he was. After a momentary jab of pain due to the exertion of sitting up, he glanced around at the hospital beds and fell back onto his sheets with a groan.

 “Pat?” came the strained call from the bed beside him.

 Turning sharply – and agonizingly – Patroclus met the eyes of Achilles, blond curls splayed across the starched pillow. He smiled guiltily.

 “What happened to you?” Patroclus barked accusingly. “I can see from that stupid look on your face that you’ve done something absurd.”

 Achilles gave a short, strained laugh. “I – “  
  
“No, don’t even tell me.” Patroclus interrupted, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms across his chest as he turned to face the ceiling. “I don’t want to know.”

 There was a moment of rustling, and then the scraping of metal on stone. Concernedly, Patroclus glanced over at Achilles to see him out of his bed, pushing the single crib over to meet the edge of Patroclus’ mattress.

 At the noise the matron came rushing out of her office, face lit with horror.

 “What on earth – “  
  
“I figured, seeing as we’re both going to be staying here for a little while, we might as well get comfortable.” Achilles reasoned, before she could finish her question. He smiled blissfully, batting his long eyelashes as he nestled back into their newly conjoined bed.

 “Don’t, you are insufferable. Completely and utterly the worst.” Patroclus mumbled as Achilles curled himself around his side. He nested his face into the crook of Patroclus’ neck in a way he knew full well the other boy found irresistible, planting a light kiss on the edge of his jaw. Their hands grappled until they met beneath the sheets, attracted as if by the forces of nature themselves.

“Make me.”


End file.
